


Requited

by Greythreads



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:29:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21634423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greythreads/pseuds/Greythreads
Summary: A different take on the evening before the battle with the dead at Winterfell.What if Sansa and Sandor reunited before the battle, instead of during that odd show offering afterwards?A quick one shot. My first time posting :)
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 24
Kudos: 115





	Requited

**Author's Note:**

> There's no time left for restraint or courtesy when this may be your last night alive.

She had seen him as he rode in. 

Every eye in the castle was on the Queen's caravan. For once though, he was the least interesting sight. His size and scars milquetoast to Targaryen Queens, Dothraki, Unsullied, fucking dragons. 

But she saw him. And he saw her.

He rattled about her castle for days. Did whatever was needed of him. Drank. Hid. Remembered. Too much.

The Little Wolf found him first. Where he had softened, she had been ground sharp. As if she had stolen away a part of his fury, along with his coin. 

The Little Bird was just a glimpse of copper in a sea of grey from time to time. So be it. He had no expectations. Hope was poison. He was here only to fight. Kill. Die, may be. And it was fine.

The ginger Wildling rode in with some Black Brothers, and grim news. There would be no more waiting. The dead would be at the gates before sunrise. 

He found wine and quiet place to drown for a bit. Wasn’t quiet enough. 

“Clegane. My sister wants to see you.”

“What the fuck for? It’s a little late to call for my head. Tell her the dead will see to it by morning. Or you can do for me if not.”

“Even so, I wouldn’t keep her waiting. The Keep. Third floor. Third door.”

“Seven Hells.”

But he went. Of course he went. 

He knocked. And waited.

When she opened the door she said nothing. He didn’t either. There were no words for this. Her pale blue eyes held his grey. 

She was even more beautiful. Sharpened as well. The first of two little girls that loss and suffering had honed into two of the most terrifying women he knew.

Time stood still and on they stood. Stared. 

She finally opened her mouth to speak, but didn’t. Took a step closer to him. Up to him. His instincts tensed, readied him to bolt. 

Before he could run a white hand rose, and cupped the ruined side of his face. He couldn’t feel it. But it spoke of everything. 

He snatched her up to him with an arm around her waist, and crushed her lips with his.

Her hands fisted the hair at the nape of his neck and he kicked the door shut behind them.

The taste of blood was in his mouth, or hers. Their lips were both cruel on each other. The blood spoke to their desperation. The time and distance and pain.

This was a different pain and only theirs on this night. 

He swept a tray of cups and wine from a table and backed her onto it. Pale, urgent hands pulled at his laces and rough hands shoved under her skirts.

As he entered her she cried out. It was punishment. Joy. Anguish. Redemption. Forgiveness. Need. Need. Need.

He watched the cry come from her swollen lips. He watched her eyes as he answered her in kind with each thrust. Kept watching as he leaned over her. Braced himself with one forearm on the table and the other a vice at her hip.

Heels dug into his back and nails bit into his neck as he fucked her hard. Gave her everything. His mouth breathing in each of her gasps.

She only took her eyes from his to throw her head, arch her back, cry out now in the different pain of her pleasure. Two tears slid from her eyes into the hair at her temples. 

That pale throat bared like an offering. No knife needed for her song. She gave it willingly. 

One last thrust and his pleasure almost took his legs out from under him. His groan above her, his head on his forearm. Her hair stuck to his lips.

Her hair stuck to the tears on his cheeks. 

They stayed locked together. Breathing like bellows, both. If they didn’t move the dawn would not come for them. There would only be this moment. Forever. 

“Little Bird, I…” when he could finally shape words. 

“I know.”

She wrapped her arms around him. It was tender now. The tempest past. Still he was not ready to slip himself from her. Would that he never had to.

“Just come back to me.”

“I…”

“Just come back to me.”

“Aye, Little Bird.”

He would fight. Kill. Live tonight, may be.


End file.
